A Blooming Edwardian Summer
by 4give4get
Summary: After 90 years of being a vampire, Edward Cullen is given a second chance at life. After all that he’s been through, he wakes up as seventeen-year-old Edward Masen in 1918 as if the epidemic never happened. And who is Isabella Giordano?
1. Persephone

After 90 years of being a vampire, Edward Cullen is given a second chance at life

**Title-**** A Blooming Edwardian Summer**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Pairing-**** Eventual BellaxEdward**

**Note-**** NOT AU!**

**Disclaimer- I hate this book so much, I would never own it. I dislike Stephanie Meyer. Right, so why am I writing on fanfiction about it? I don't know. But, just so you all know, Stephanie Meyer DOESN'T own Twilight. The publishing company does, duh. It annoys me when people say she owns it.**

**The whole idea of publishing a book is that you sell the idea (the book) to the company and they publish it. Wow.**

**Serena- Kay, kay, random ideas spurt out of me and random moments… you guys know that! If you bother reading this, please review. Either way, I'm going to be a novelist someday, whether or not you review.**

_Persephone…_

The rain was coming down in quick droplets, making splotches on the glass of the slightly opened-a-crack window. Sweet smelling air came flooding into the dank room and Edward Cullen sat in a chair, his feet up on the windowsill, just gazing out into the dripping wet greenery of the forest.

It was even a rather beautiful view, although his attention was not focused on the dreary modern thunderstorm, but rather his thoughts were on a blooming Edwardian summer. A season long past, to be sure.

Wasn't it July of 1909 that his friend Peter's mother had died? It was hot. Most of the older boys were flaunting their automobiles and driving down to the lake for a swim. Edward was eight years old, staring at those machines with admiration.

Peter lived in the house next door. Edward remembered the heavy, hot suit his mother made him wear as they followed the shiny coffin down the path in the graveyard. She held him by the ear and parted his air with a comb, practically plastering it to his head.

"And keep your hands clean, do you hear me?"

So on they walked, to an eight-year-old's mind a wasted summer afternoon was passing. His eyes skimmed over impossibly old graves with stone angels and crosses and white roses growing along fences. The names on said stones were of no importance—they were simply dead.

Such human thoughts! They all seemed so alien to him now, but in reality they weren't far from what sorts of things a normal human child would think of. Edward Cullen. Once normal. It all sounded odd in words.

Edward's eyes scanned over the other people in the precession. Peter's father. Peter's grandmother. His aunts and uncles. He finally found Peter himself. He was a young boy same as Edward, but his eyes were red from recent tears.

He understood—he couldn't imagine losing his mother. Edward looked up at the face of Elizabeth Masen who held his hand as they walked. Her chin was foreword and her gaze straight ahead.

Her silky brown hair was in a simple chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a black hat tilted at an angle towards her forehead and a black gown with puffed sleeves. Edward could remember hearing the scraping of her heeled boots along the cobblestones. Her blue eyes glance down at him and smile ever so slightly so that only he could see it.

Her pale, delicate hand was entwined in his own chubby fingers, which she gave a slight squeeze.

No, he could not possibly imagine life without his mother. Just him and his father in the house. Edward's father was a perfectly fine man. No, he was not cruel. Anyone could tell he loved his wife by the way he followed her with his eyes.

And that he cared very deeply for their young son by the way he squatted down to speak to him and ruffled his hair.

But somehow Edward found his father rather frightening. He felt he would rather die than displease him somehow. And his sweet, kind mother was his protection from it all.

As he turned his attention back to the gravestones, he noticed something dart out from behind a large angle with a trumpet and behind that angel's sister so fast he could hardly see it at all.

Finally, they stopped, as it would seem they reached the place they would be burying Peter's mother. A minister read from a bible, though his words did not make it to Edward's ears for his mind was elsewhere.

His hand slipped from his mother's and he pushed past two portly older gentlemen carrying pocket watches before she could call him back. He loosened the tie his mother had put on him that morning and walked among the mourners, glad for his freedom.

Gossiping old women, business men, bored looking teenage girls, hardly any other children really. And surely no one he could amuse himself with.

That's when he saw her. She was just about his own age, but unlike any other girl he was used to seeing. She did not wear lace gloves, or a short white dress, or a big satin bow. Her hair was pale blonde and her face was smudged. If his mother ever saw him that dirty she'd drag him to the bathtub by his ears! She had on a threadbare brown dress that was rather big on her thin frame and her boots were held together by ancient stitches.

Edward had never seen a girl like this before.

"Did you know Peter's mother?" he asked her, frowning.

"No," she answered him, stepping from around the nearest tombstone.

"Then why are you here?" It seemed rather foolish to waste a summer afternoon here if you didn't have to be.

"You're a horrible boy!" she snapped, catching him off guard, "Talkin' so familiarly to a girl when you 'aven't even bothered asking her name!"

"What does your name matter?" Edward countered her. He had lots of friends. Most of which he just began talking to as so. Then again, all of those said friends were boys. Boys did not need proper introductions.

"Oh, I do hate boys," she muttered under her breath.

Glancing at the sky, Edward saw he would get no other company but this shabby-looking girl that talked oddly.

"I'm sorry, Edward Masen, you are?"

"Daisy Dussle," she held out her hand.

He just stared at her dirty hand.

"Shake my hand, foolish boy," she snapped, "Only _then _we won't be strangers no more."

Edward relented and shook her hand.

"There we are," Daisy smiled, "My father's the caretaker—that's why I'm here."

"Do you find it scary to spend time in the graveyard?"

"Of course not. Dead people are just dead. You know," he could tell she had only begun talking, "The whole idea of graveyards isn't for the dead really—it's for the living. Do you think dead people care that they were buried by their children or husband? Or that they get flowers and stone angels? No. No, they do not. They don't even knows it because they're dead. This is all for the living."

She spreads out her arms, gesturing to the whole graveyard.

Of course, as a child he hardly understood this talk. In truth (a truth he didn't realize until much later) Daisy was smart beyond her years. She thought more and therefore knew more.

"And Edward," she whispered, "I'm a Duchess, too. I'm very rich and have about thirty or so diamond tiaras and pearl necklaces to match."

"You do not!" It was not Edward who said this, but Peter who had walked in on their conversation.

"Perhaps," Daisy replied, coolly, "But I enjoy pretendin' I do, and it isn't hurting nobody to say so!"

"If you tell lies you go to the children's Limbo," Peter informed her.

"You're rather foolish, aren't you?" she laughed, "There's no such thing as a limbo!"

"Yes, there is," Peter continued to argue, "It says so in the Bible."

"The Bible's wrong."

"Wrong how?" Edward asked, intrigued by her perspective. He'd never heard anyone challenge anything of the sort before.

"There isn't no such thing as eternal damnination," Daisy listed off, "When you're dead, you're just dead—end of story."

"Is there a heaven?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. I'll find out someday won't I?"

"The Bible is not wrong; it was written by Jesus," Peter said.

"What does he know?" she shot back, "Earth itself is Hell, and there might be some place after death, but no one knows what it is and if they say they do, they are fake and are only scared of the unknown!"

Peter's face was now red with frustration. Edward still wanted to Daisy speak more.

He needn't have worried, Daisy was quite the talker:

"If there is such thing as the Devil, it is not a man. Do you think a man could be capable of being the most evil thing in the world? If She exsists, She is a spoiled teenage girl who thinks Her parents don't understand Her and spends all day sulkin'. Not much of a threat, hmmm?"

Peter turned on his heel and walked away, while Edward spoke, "Who told you those things, Daisy?"

"I thought of 'em myself. I 'aven't got any mother. And Papa rarely speaks to me," she sighed, gazing at the warm sun.

At that moment, he realized they had drifted slightly from the rest of the crowd. A terrifying man in torn-up overalls and filthy hands with an unshaven face came limping (drunkenly, as Edward later figured out. Naturally an eight-year-old does not know a drunk person when they see one.) over a few rose bushes, and flung his wild eyes about his skull.

"Daisy!" he snapped, making Edward jump in fright, "Git over here! Git over here now, girl! Now, I say!"

Daisy looks helplessly at Edward, who was probably the more frightened of the two and seemed to be begging him to help.

But what could he do? He was only an eight-year-old child as well. The caretaker, Mr. Dussle roughly grabbed Daisy's small, reed-like arm and shook her as he swore a bunch of words Edward knew his mother would throw a fit if she knew he'd heard them. Daisy's gray eyes were wide and terrified as her lip trembled.

Edward ducked out of sight, lest the man should look over. He hit her against a few gravestones before dragging her out of sight, Daisy was openly sobbing.

That day, Little Edward got a little taste of reality. The world was not one of all nice things like what he grew up in. There were dirty, pale, thin little girls with abusive fathers, and who knows what else?

As Edward's shaking legs carried him back to the mourners he saw his own father. A clean, well-shaven, intelligent looking man in a tailored suit with clean, gentle hands. How could he have been afraid of him when there were fathers like Daisy's?

Edward ran the rest of the way and hugged his father around the waist, burying his face in his stomach. His hair was tussled like usual, and the small hand of his mother patted his back.

Didn't Daisy deserve a family like this too?

Back in reality, Edward smiled coyly. Everyone in this generation made it seem like back then was a simple time. _Simpler_, perhaps, but not completely simple. Didn't they understand that were no flu shots or even penicillin. Children could legally work all day in sweatshops, women died in childbirth, people got tuberculosis and cholera and hardly lived to see sixty most of the time.

The slums of cities were full of poor immigrants, most of them forced to work in factories because that was the only people that would hire them. They lived in dirty, rat-infested tenements and children were always sick.

Of course, that was not Edward's life. But after meeting Daisy Dussle he had at least had to acknowledge the other side of the caste system.

And if he said that he never went back to the graveyard again to see Daisy, he would by lying through his teeth. Lying like a rug. Sometimes Peter came with him—sometimes he didn't. Edward knew Peter didn't trust Daisy one bit. But the three children had fun somehow.

Children all are the same no matter how rich or poor their parents are. As soon as you grow up, that's where they get different, Edward figured. Well, he would just have to avoid growing up, in that case.

The rain was then falling harder, as if trying to penetrate the glass. And still Edward remembered, he remembered a time before he was a monster, before he had a taste for human blood, a time he'd attempted to forget.

"_You cannot move backwards, only forewords."_ Whose quote was that anyway? Just because someone quoted it doesn't make it correct.

Besides, was being a vampire so bad? He had Bella now too. Everything would work itself out. But it was still a human craving to live just as a human should. To be born and to eventually die. Sure, at first the prospect of immortality was appealing. To be able to live to see the next century and the next…

But didn't the world like new things? Weren't they defying nature to still be living? New people were born and the old were killed. All by nature. A vampire has no place in nature. He may never be dead, but Edward was definitely not alive. The world was always moving and changing… but he—he always stayed still.

Which is partially why he didn't want Bella to have this sort of fate. He didn't want it for himself. But of course, Carlisle had saved him. He would have been dead otherwise. At least this way he got to meet people like Carlisle, Esme, Emmet, Jasper, Alice, Rosalie, and Bella.

He still couldn't help but wonder what his life would have been. It was easy to guess—'I would've gone to school, then gotten married, perhaps have kids, watch them grow up, perhaps have grandchildren, and then I would have died,' he thought.

A normal human's life, too be sure. He would have never even known vampires existed. He never would have known Bella would ever exist. He would have likely been dead by the time she was born.

'But I would've died,' he thought again, 'I wouldn't have lived like that—there's no point in regretting a decision when anything else never would have worked.'

And there you have it.

Edward continued watching the rain, his mind completely blank. He didn't want to risk having another flash back of another time—another version of himself. The human version.

Could Bella have loved the human Edward? Would that have been enough? Or was it his cold, hard body, his deathlike pale skin, and his thirst for blood that had gotten her interested in the first place?

Could Bella even love a human at all? She loved him—that he knew. She loved that werewolf Jacob. Was she incapable of having similar feelings for humans?

For being over a hundred and ten years old, he honestly didn't know much.

The rain fell harder yet. This would be the worst thunderstorm in a while, even for Forks. Lightning lit the gray sky and the wind blew the tree branches to and fro. Perhaps the power would go out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Edward saw the door to his room open. Who would it be? Emmett and Rosalie weren't home. He could hear Jasper, Alice, and Carlisle downstairs. With his vampire speed, he was at the door to confront whoever it was in an instant.

It was a human girl.

The only human he'd ever used his own powers around was Bella, naturally. And even she blinked when he'd appear in front of her suddenly.

This girl did not.

Edward was about to ask what she was doing in their house, when he noticed her attire. She was dressed in a white robe. Almost like a toga party costume. She wore vines of holly in her curly brown hair. Her skin was fair and her bare feet made her walk elegantly across the floor.

Her dark eyes held grace and she held a fruit that Edward realized was a pomegranate in one hand.

Who dressed like that?

"Who are you?" his voice sounded stupid even to his own ears.

"Oh, you know me," she said coyly, making herself at home on his couch, "Edward Masen."

"Remind me."

Who knew him as Edward Masen besides his family and Bella?

Everyone Edward Masen had known in his short life was now dead. He'd personally checked. Peter—dead. Peter's father—dead. The old family cook, who would always let Edward sweeten his porridge—dead. Daisy Dussle—dead.

And this girl did not look to be any older than fifteen.

"Well, perhaps you don't _know _me," she corrected herself, "But you've heard of me. Everyone has."

What was this, some sort of riddle? Obviously, he couldn't be dreaming. Or perhaps just spacing out? Going crazy? Could that happen to vampires?

"Enlighten me," he said, wanting some things cleared up to say the least.

"Persephone," the girl said, pronouncing the name, "I am Persephone."

**(A/N: ****Persephone****- The Goddess of the Underworld in Greek mythology. Pronounced: **_Per-se-phen, _**Goddess of death, rebirth, and wisdom, married to Hades)**

"You," Edward said, "Are on crack."

Her dark eyes flashed and suddenly her calm face was angry. Her mouth began to open… and open so wide that it was impossible for a human jaw to do so without becoming disconnected.

Fire began to burn around her heels and she shouted in the most un-human voice Edward had ever heard, "I'm the Goddess of the Underworld, daughter of Demeter and I have powers beyond your comprehension! You are immortal, Edward Masen, but just because you escaped my grasps once does not mean you can do it again!"

Edward stepped back. No, this girl was not human. Whether or not she was the goddess Persephone or not, he had not decided, but she was definitely not human. No vampire he knew would conjure fire.

Her dark eyes met his.

"No, Edward Masen, I am not a vampire. And this is not just any fire—it's flames from Hell itself."

"From Hell itself?" Edward repeated.

"Naturally, it's where I rein as the Iron Queen. Goddess of the Underworld—I _am _Hell." She said, sitting back down again and looking calm and demure as if she were not just summoning flames of Hell into his room.

"And I, unlike you," Persephone continued, "Have no rules to live by. I'm granted that much. No god or goddess may control me—not even Zeus himself, for I control death."

Edward stared at her. How could death have such an innocent, youthful face? Was all she did all day was scour the Earth for souls to take? What sort of havoc as she wreaked throughout history?

Her dark gaze softened, "Edward Masen, I do no such thing. The world is not a perfect place, because of negligent gods and goddesses. I only come when I am called."

"What?"

"I am not the cause of death. I only ferry their souls to Hell. In reality, I am enslaved to humans." She said this in almost a sad tone.

"I'm sorry," Edward said, uncomfortably, really at a lack of anything else to say.

"Do not be," she said, smiling, showing pointy teeth, "Such is the cost of being a goddess. A good one anyway. Although since I am associated with death, I'm given a bad name. Hmmmph, would humans rather their souls wander the Earth for all eternity? I do them a service—they don't see it that way."

"And immortals?"

"Like yourself?" Persephone certified, "Gods and goddesses have little control over you. They cannot kill you—only others of your kind may do that."

"You took my parents to Hell?"

"Elizabeth and Hiram Masen," Persephone said it in almost a dream-like way, "I held their fragile souls," she held out her hands, "And so many others that died in the epidemic. Yes, I took them."

"And they are in Hell now?"

"Along with every other deceased human, yes."

"Bring them back," Edward ordered, wondering if she'd get angry again.

She did not, "Why should I?" she asked, not grinning, but not unhappy, "They are mine now, they belong with me."

He had expected to hear, "It's impossible, once a soul is in Hell, it never comes back. The rules restrict it."

Reading his thoughts, Persephone smiled, "I have no rules, Edward Masen."

"So you could bring back anyone from the dead?" he was quite interested now.

By now, he had decided this could only be Persephone, the Goddess of the Underworld. How insane he felt thinking it! He could not hear her thoughts as she could his. What was more proof of her being a goddess than that?

"I could," she agreed.

"And the soul would not be corrupted, or a zombie, or anything?" he pressed on.

"No, they would be exactly as they were—in the best health of their mortal life. Their minds would be the same—their physical body. You see, when you reunite a soul with its mortal shell, even if the body is thousands of years old, the pure energy of the soul causes it to be regenerated. Decaying reverses itself. The soul is very powerful," she explained.

And finally, "Persephone, why are you here?"

The Goddess of the Underworld smiled with her pointy teeth, "Because, Edward Masen, I'd like to give you a second chance at life."

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Chapter one, ta da!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Alive Again

"A second chance at life

**Title-**** A Blooming Edwardian Summer**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Pairing- ****Eventual BellaxEdward**

**Note-**** Not AU**

**Disclaimer- Twilight sucks. I don't own it.**

**Serena- Thanks all!**

_Alive Again…_

"A second chance at life?" Edward repeated, not quite believing it.

"You heard me," Persephone, the robed girl with holly vines and a pomegranate sitting on his bedroom couch said.

Yes, the Goddess of the Underworld sat on his couch.

"But I'm not dead," he countered.

"No," she agreed, "You are not. But neither are you alive, so it really doesn't matter."

Made sense to him.

"You are turning me into a human?" he wasn't so sure that was a good thing. He'd hardly had any time to think it out! As a human he could be a better match for Bella. They could go to school then, and eventually die together. As mortals.

But would Bella love the human Edward?

Edward knew he could not live without Bella's love, and wasn't quite sure what to say to Death herself. Now sitting on his couch.

"Yes, just where your life stopped," Persephone explained, "March 7, 1918. I can take you there."

Edward smiled, "Thank you, no. I can't leave Bella."

He assumed she knew who Bella was since after all she was Death. And could read his mind, apparently.

"You know, Edward Masen, I don't remember giving you the choice," she reminded him offhandedly.

"I thought you only took human souls to Hell, how can you make the world go back to ninety years ago? And then strip me of my immortality and powers?" Edward shot back.

"Edward Masen," Persephone laughed, "I can do things beyond your comprehension, remember? And now you say I can't do such a tiny thing as that? You were human once, and they don't think very large scale. And your powers—if you can even call how you are barely stronger than humans powers—can be taken as easily as they came."

Edward was too frightened to feel annoyed at how she was belittling him. _Hardly stronger than a human?_ But then again, she was a goddess.

"We can only move backwards, not forewords," he quoted in his last defence.

"I have no rules, Edward Masen," Persephone said slyly.

She stood up and began walking towards him.

No! This couldn't happen! He couldn't go back to 1918! He tried to dart around her and out the door (a human would not even be able to blink in the time he did so) but Persephone was faster and grabbed to both of his shoulders and they flew through the fall as if they were nothing but ghosts.

The rain continued but didn't touch them. Nothing may touch the Goddess of the Underworld.

They flew at such a speed, Edward was even dizzied. Shapes and forms passed, only half-there. Sometimes it was dark, sometimes there were great flashes of light. Edward felt like he was underwater. Then he was gulping air again.

Wait… He was gulping air. Edward Cullen needed to breathe. He was no longer a vampire.

When Persephone slowed down, they were both in a dark night sky. They could be in Hell itself, for all he knew. All black for miles. Was this even Earth? He felt shivers now.

"No…" his strangled voice managed the word, "I can't leave… Bella…"

"What a human emotion… love," Persephone commented as though she were speaking of the weather, "It is alien to us."

"Please…" he tried again.

"Hmmm, perhaps you may just see your precious Bella again—"

Her fingers slipped from his shoulders, causing him to tumble down, down, down. To fall forever. To fall forever in this big, black world of nothingness.

He saw Persephone—Death's youthful face. And she was smiling.

And then, Edward felt something that he hadn't experienced in… years. When you are on the verge of sleep, but all of a sudden you feel as if you're falling down a flight of stairs and you snap awake.

Edward jolted awake.

And when he did he was lying in a very familiar bed in a very familiar bedroom. One he hadn't seen in just about ninety years. Sitting up and looking at his palms, he suddenly felt his stomach drop.

He tried to crush the header on the bed. Nothing. His hands were as weak as… as a human's.

Edward Cullen was a human.

A human in 1918.

Edward Cullen was Edward Masen.

Again.

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Yup, the last four lines there are brilliant if you ask me. That's how you end a chapter!**

**Bitch.**

**Thanks again for reading!**


	3. Isabella

Title- A Blooming Edwardian Summer

**Title-**** A Blooming Edwardian Summer**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Pairing-**** Eventual BellaxEdward**

**Note-**** Not AU**

**Disclaimer- I don't own Twilight.**

**Serena- Thanks to all who read, and thanks to ****curlyk03**** for the review!**

_Isabella…_

Isabella Giordano was a simple girl. Yes, a simple girl with simple needs. What did she need? Well, needing was different than wanting. What did Isabella want?

She wanted to attend school, she wanted to go to Paris, she wanted to become a fashion designer, and travel to China and Japan to see all of the finest silks and Oriental fashions.

Of course, she didn't NEED any of that.

Of course, she wouldn't likely have any of it either.

Her family was poor. Both of her parents were born simple village-dwelling, poor Italians. They had a farm, and it had failed, year after year. Isabella had two younger sisters—twins.

Stella and Silvana were five years younger than Isabella—only ten. And yet they got so little to eat they hadn't even enough energy to play anymore. They would just lie on their cot, staring at the peeling walls.

Isabella tried hard—oh, did she try hard! She spent hours trying to coax their garden into growing. But the soil was bad. They were not the only ones. Families were being evicted and starving alongside the road. They were lucky yet.

But her parents and sister's were starving. So they left. They gave up on their family farm—the only thing they knew, the thing that had been in the Giordano family for generations—and they gave up on Italy.

The farm was sold, their possessions where sold. They owned nothing but the clothes on their backs and a few small bundles of extra little things. And five steamship tickets to New York City.

Isabella was scared. She did not like the idea of being on a ship for a full eight or nine days in the middle of a deep, dark ocean. She had never seen the ocean before. She screamed and clung to the rail upon taking board.

"I can't do it!" she sobbed openly.

She felt no shame for crying. Usually she would not permit herself to cry in front of her younger sisters who looked up to her. But not now. They were leaving Italy—the only home she had ever known. Tears were falling freely now.

Eventually her mother, Angelica eased her away from the rail and they watched the ship cast off. Isabella waved until Italy was no longer even a line on the horizon.

The bunks below were crammed, but it hardly mattered to her. She was used to sharing a cot with Stella and Silvana anyway. She liked having them close. The first night she cried. She cried for her lost home, she cried for herself, and she cried for the whole world.

'How silly,' she thought, wiping her eyes and burying her face into Stella's sleeping form, 'A girl of fifteen—almost a woman now—crying like this.'

And she tried to only look forwards from then on.

The Giordano family arrived in Ellis Island in 1916. They waited in line for over two days. The girls slept on the ground, their parents nudging them when they would inch forwards.

'It seems the whole world is trying to come to America,' Isabella thought, amazed.

People babbled in all different languages. Women in thick Scandinavian skirts, a group of young men in striped Russian pants, and even a young woman in wooden shoes. There were many other Italians and many others whom Isabella could only guess where they might be from.

Children laughed and played, babies cried, and the whole place stank something awful, practically as bad as the latrines on the steamship.

Finally, at the end were the health inspectors. They inspected Renato Giordano, Isabella's father first. Her eyes went wide, however, when the man pulled a buttonhook from his table and used it to lift up her father's eyelid.

The man shook his head. No.

The man who had began inspecting Angelica found the same thing.

"You must go back," the interpreter told them.

It all seemed to happen at once. Isabella realized her parents were not being allowed in. America did not want them. She instantly grabbed hold of her mother's arm.

"Bella-Bella," Angelica said, looking angry, "If I you've ever obeyed me before, do it now. You stay here."

"But Mama!" she cried, "I can't be in America alone!"

They were already being led back to where a ship would depart for Italy.

"No!" she screamed again. She knew it would be the last time she'd see them. If America didn't want them now, they most likely wouldn't change their mind.

Her eyes then went to Stella and Silvana who were both silently crying. She would take care of them. She would be the best big sister! Because those two poor girls deserved that much.

Feeling brave, she stepped forward and let the man look under her eyelid.

"Go on," he said with his hands, for Isabella spoke no English.

He checked Stella and Silvana. And they went forward. Without their parents. To New York City's lower East side.

The buildings were unlike anything Isabella had seen in Italy. They were truly amazing to her at first.

She found them shelter—all by herself. It was with an Italian family, Mr. and Mrs. Moretti and their children. They all shared one room in a tenement building, but had a curtain drawn down the middle so at least the three girls would have some privacy from Mrs. Moretti's teenage sons.

They got used to the sounds of rats scampering through the walls and the horrible cold in the winter to be matched by the horrible heat in the summer. There was one toilet per floor and the line was usually so long to use it, the best time to go was in the dead of night.

To pay the rent, Isabella found herself work in a thread factory. She stood in line with the rest, making an _X _in place of her name on the contract. An Irish girl about her own age showed her how to work the machines.

Her back ached from bending over all day and the air was dusty and coated her throat, causing her a constant cough. Yes, the dust was everywhere—even in her eyes. And the loud hum of the machines would ring in her ears even after she had gone to bed.

She woke and the crack of dawn and worked a twelve hour day (including a lunch break) until dusk. She soon felt weaker than she ever had before.

All she ate was what potatoes Mrs. Moretti would allow the girls to have—not much. Isabella found her stomach was always craving more and let Stella and Silvana have a portion of her food.

Little girls should not be hungry.

For twelve hours a day, six days a week, Isabella Giordano was paid 3.50 a week for her labor. And was exhausted all day, every day it seemed.

She learned at her job very quickly. It did not require much thought. Operate the machines, if the thread breaks reach in and tie it—but do it quickly otherwise you'll be like the Polish girl yesterday that got her finger chopped off.

'I haven't bathed in months,' Isabella thought, 'I feel dirty and tired.'

If she ever slowed the man who hired her—whose job appeared to be to just make sure they didn't stop working—had shouted at her all day in English. He even slapped her, causing her cheek to sting for the most part of the day.

That caused Isabella to waver. This man hit her! He couldn't just… But he could. He was an American and she was some Italian girl, destitute, working in a factory. Anyone and everyone was allowed to hit her as much as they wanted at this point.

'For Stella. For Silvana. For Mama and Papa back home,' She thought as she worked.

She stood in line with the rest of the girls and received her pay. She felt so proud the moment she was handed the money. All hers! She had earned it all!

After paying Mrs. Moretti the rent, she asked if they may send the rest back to Italy. Surely Angelica and Renato would need some money back in Florence where they were living now.

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Moretti had said and took the rest of the money.

Stella and Silvana both got jobs weaving colorful scarves with a group Russian women on the streets. Isabella was glad they at least didn't work in an airless factory or have the danger of losing limbs. She wouldn't be able to bear it if that should happen to her little sisters.

They lived like that for a little more than a year. Isabella turned sixteen and Stella and Silvana turned eleven. All three girls were even decent at speaking English, if with an accent.

They still hadn't heard a single thing from Angelica and Renato. One day, Mrs. Moretti approached Isabella before bed and said a letter had been sent to them from Florence. One of the Moretti sons read it aloud, saying that both parents were now dead. Disease.

"But I was sending them money! They should have had enough food to stay strong through the disease!" Isabella cried, hugging Stella's and Silvana's trembling forms.

That night, a hand was rested on Isabella's shoulder, waking her from her restless doze. She suppressed a startled scream, seeing it was only Manuel Moretti—the son who could read.

She supposed she was about a year older than him and had no real reason not to trust him. She sat up in bed, not really caring if he saw her in her nightclothes.

"Manuel?" she whispered, "What is it?"

"I feel so guilty—I must tell you, Isabella," he really did look upset, "I just found out myself, if I'd known, I would have put my foot down, I swear."

"Yes, yes, what is it?" she pressed him for some answers.

"My mother and father have not been sending your money."

There. The words were out. Isabella had often wondered if she could trust them with the money, but also figured she had no other choice. She felt betrayed. She felt angry. She felt powerless. All of those hours of work she did in that airless thread factory… for what?

Isabella began openly sobbing. She cried for her parents… starving and sick. Did they wonder why she sent nothing? Why was the world so hard? She worked so hard, but Angelic and Renato were dead anyway.

Stella and Silvana both woke and saw that their older sister was crying—that the world was too much for her and instantly began bawling their own eyes out. Isabella hugged them close and tried to settle her own sobs and cries but could not suppress them in her chest. All three girls cried themselves to sleep that night.

The next day, Isabella decided they would leave. They would leave the lower East Side, and they would leave all of New York City. Manuel talked his parents into giving them what little money of Isabella, Stella, and Silvana's salaries they still had and it would have to be enough.

At the train station, they simply stood, gazing at the signs of names of cities and arrival and departure times.

"Where are we going, Bella-Bella?" Stella asked, clutching her sister's hand tighter.

"Yes, where?" Silvana seconded, doing the same.

'I don't know,' Isabella thought, gazing at the signs, 'I don't know anything anymore.'

She let go of Stella's hand and traced her finger up and down the lines and writing that spelled names of places she could not read and let it stop on one.

"Excuse me, sir," she said in her best English to a man next to her examining the sign as well, "What does this say?"

He glanced at the name in which she pointed and said, "Chicago. If you're going to Chicago, honey, you'll want to hurry. Platform seven—leaving now."

"Thank you, sir."

Isabella grabbed Stella's hand again and they ran to hastily purchase the tickets and climb aboard the train. They sat squashed in a seat with a couple nuns, an old couple, and a little boy that appeared to be their grandson also in their car.

'We have eleven dollars and eighty cents left over. It's not much. Not much at all—but it'll have to do until I can find another job in…Chicago?' she thought, 'That's an odd name for a city.'

The train ride was very long and horribly hot. When they arrived at the Chicago train station they were all so tired that they could do nothing but find the cheapest hotel in walking distance.

Isabella was hired as a maid in a men's boarding house. It was a good situation because they were allowed the low room in the attic along with four dollars a week in salary. Fifty more cents than she made in New York in that thread factory.

The rooms were disgusting. Tobacco was spat on the floor, bits of stale food lay under the beds and it all smelled of sweat and bodies. She soon learned not to even think about it as she cleaned it all up.

She cooked the breakfasts in the morning and was in charge of cleaning most of the kitchen. Her employer, Mr. Kinner was gone all day and really only owned the house anyhow.

Without having to pay rent and such a raise in salary, Stella and Silvana were able to attend school. Before long, they could read newspapers aloud and write their names and more.

**End Flashback**

As Bella sat, recalling the past two years of her life, she realized it all didn't matter. She was here in Chicago now, and her sisters were reading and would get an education.

Stella was sitting on the one chair in their small room and reading a newspaper aloud—a romantic story about a destitute girl and a rich man's son. The roof in the room was so low that if Isabella were more than two or three inches taller than her five feet, four inches, she would have to bend over.

Silvana knelt at her twin sister's feet, toying with the hem of her dress, listening to her read. Isabella sat on the bed they shared in the corner, resting with her chin in her hands, elbows on the windowsill and looking out into the street below.

Isabella could see her reflection almost in the dark window and was rather puzzled by it. Was she pretty? Or homely? Would she ever marry? Would her husband find her pretty?

Her reflection was that of a seventeen-year-old Italian immigrant girl's would be. Her jaw was delicate and the more she examined herself the more she swore her nose was off-center. Or maybe she was just looking too hard.

She was very pale too. Perhaps fair skin was valued, but she even looked sickly because of it. Her cheeks were not rosy at all. She pinched them, trying to add color, only to have it fade in seconds before her eyes.

Her eyes were dark, framed by her dark, firm, eyebrows. She raised her eyebrows. Up. Down. Up. Down. She wrinkled her forehead and nose and stuck her tongue out.

Her hair was a dark brown. Fairly common. She pulled it out of the braid in back and shook it loose around her shoulders. No, nothing was very special about her hair. Just average dark hair. Not a single wave or curl in it either. It hung perfectly straight, even after being tied in a braid all day.

'Hopeless,' she thought, pushing the front parts back from her eyes.

She tried to puff her lips out by pursing them and squinted her eyes. Isabella examined this expression from all angles. Did this make her look alluring? No, more like she'd just sucked a lemon dry.

Isabella decided her face looked better from a slight angle. At least then you could see her profile slightly, which was one thing she had that she _did _like. She flipped her hair back.

"Hello," she said in English in the most attractive voice she could conjure up, "Do I know you?"

"Bella-Bella, you know that people can see right in here because it's darker out there, don't you?" Silvana reminded her, "They're going to think how insane you are making faces out the window."

"I don't care—I don't know any of them," Isabella scoffed, putting her finger on her tongue and trying to use her saliva to make her eyelashes curl upwards and appear longer.

"_Maledica la persona che ha usato il questo ultimo!"_ Stella shouted all of a sudden, throwing down the newspaper in disgust.

**(A/N: What Stella is saying is, "Damn the person who used this last!" In Italian.)**

Of course, they had found the newspaper in a garbage can.

"What is it, _sorella_?" Isabella asked, turning away from the window for once.

"The last page of that story is missing—I wanted to know how it ended." Stella sighed, picking the newspaper back up and folding it neatly.

"I did too," Silvana seconded, rolling to lie on her back, facing the ceiling, "but it hardly matters."

"You could make up your own ending," Isabella suggested.

"Yes! Let's all do it, alright, _sorella _and _sorella?_" Silvana pleaded.

"Oh, alright," Stella began, "Well, it has to end happily."

"Oh, make him give her a beautiful ruby ring for the engagement. Why not, he's rich!" Isabella laughed.

"And they take a luxury ship to Hawaii for the honeymoon?" Stella added.

"What's Hawaii?" Isabella asked, suddenly.

"It's an island. It's the most beautiful place in the world, where there is lovely beaches, palm trees, and lot's of sun and breeze and the waves all sing to you and you may drink the milk from coconuts," Silvana explained, "We're learning geography in school."

Isabella's heart sank. What she would do to be able to attend school! They learned about the world! Isabella wanted so badly to know things. To be smart. And yet here she was, a boarding house maid.

But how could she be jealous of her sisters? Her _sorelle?_ Isabella at least had the comfort that they attended school. At least she, Isabella, would be the very last of the Giordano family to be uneducated.

She smiled with the thought, "Perfect!" she exclaimed, "They must stay in a very romantic beach hut right by the water and be able to listen to the waves all night."

"Oh, I can imagine it now!" Stella sighed, looking dreamy, "I wish I could find someone rich to fall in love with."

"We all do—then we could mooch off of you," Isabella said, dryly.

"That's horribly cruel," Silvana pouted, "You don't fall in love with someone because they have money!"

"You don't?" her two sisters asked in unison, dumbfounded.

"No," she sighed, "You fall in love with them because it's fate. Your destiny."

"And if he's rich—all the better," Isabella concluded, making Stella laugh.

Even Silvana was forced to smile.

"You're kidding, Bella-Bella," she yawned, "You shall fall in love on day. And he shall be rich, although perhaps not rich in money—but still rich. He'll be rich morally because you love him so."

"Right now I would love some sleep so," Isabella suppressed her own yawns, "For morning approaches. A time of day, which I most definitely do not love so. Shall leave being rich and in love for another day, _sorelle?"_

"We'll have to," Stella said, climbing into bed.

When her two sisters were tucked in, leaving just enough room for Isabella to sleep between them, she looked at herself in the mirror one last time before she turned out the lamp.

Could somebody love that face she saw? The one with a delicate jaw, perhaps an off-center nose, dark eyes, dark hair, and pallid skin? She turned to look at herself from the angle she preferred again.

"Why, sir!" she exclaimed in English, trying to sound feminine, "I would be honored to have this dance!"

"Bella-Bella, go to sleep already," Stella moaned sleepily.

Isabella quickly turned the lamp out, turning the room as dark as the night.

"Sheesh."

.x.X.x.

On the other side of Chicago, a boy was resting peacefully in his bed. He would soon jolt awake, realizing he was human once again.

Persephone.

The Goddess's lone, solitary face dominated his vision.

"Hmmm," she giggled, "Perhaps you may just see your precious Bella again—"

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Yes, now Bella has entered the story. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Too Early for Roses

**Title-**** A Blooming Edwardian Summer**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Pairing-**** Eventual BellaxEdward**

**Note-**** Not AU**

**Disclaimer- I don't own Twilight.**

**Serena- Thanks to all who read.**

_Too Early for Roses…_

It felt odd. Being human again. It was exactly as he had remembered—but still odd. His body was so fragile now. How did humans stand it?

But then again, they never knew anything else.

After the shock of being human again wore off—come the shock of being back in his own time. 1918.

He climbed out of bed and opened the window. It looked down into a rose garden. His mother's rose garden. The one she spent all spring growing every year. The flowers were not there, but the bushes were. March is too early for roses.

Edward looked around his room again. It was just as he remembered it—wooden floor, white walls, bed in the corner, two windows on the far wall, a bookshelf and desk across from the bed and hanging from the ceiling was his model aeroplane he'd built when he was twelve.

He slowly approached his bookshelf. He had expected them all to be covered in dust. They were not.

Of course, they hadn't been sitting there for ninety years. The last time they had been used was likely the night before. This really was 1918. He brushed a book at eye-level with his thumb. _Beckwick's Study of British Birds._ _Gulliver's Travels. Sterne. The Spectator._

All of his old books were in place—everything was in place. As if he'd never left.

"Edward!" a woman's voice shouted from below, "You'd best be awake!"

Footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and eventually someone was rapping on the door.

"You've never been late _before!"_

It was the voice of Elizabeth Masen. A voice he hadn't heard in ninety long years. Edward flew to the door and wrenched it open. And there she was. In a peach colored silk skirt to her ankles, white blouse and her hair pinned up in perfection.

"Grown another inch in the night, I see," she smiled, but then frowned, "What on earth are you wearing?"

Edward looked down at himself to see just what he _was _wearing. Jeans and a t-shirt. How would he explain this?

"Just… pajamas," he spoke quickly, "I'll get changed and be right down."

When she left, he closed the door in relief. What day was it? Glancing at his calendar on the wall he saw it was a Friday. It was a school day.

'Great,' he thought, wrenching open his dresser, 'A few hours to settle in would have been welcomed.'

Before long, he was outfitted in knee-length pants tucked in his brown knee-socks, suspenders and a white button shirt with a tie. Brown cap and leather shoes and he was dressed.

As Edward walked downstairs, he noted every detail of the house. It was exactly the same. Every exact picture hanging on the wall was down to a tee.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Mallon—the family cook who would later die in 1927, he checked—had eggs and bacon ready for him, along with a smile.

"There you are, young sir, you'd best eat quickly." She commented, clanking the pots as she washed them.

The food tasted just as Mrs. Mallon always cooked it.

He left out the back door and got is bicycle out from behind the garden shed. It was not rusty as though it had been lying back there for practically a century. He pedaled down the road with eager quickness, trying to remember what route he would always take to the high school.

He would be a senior, right? What was his schedule? How could he have possibly remembered after so many years?

But at the same time, Edward was thrilled to be back. Back where he should be. As he thought this, a voice whispered in his ear—

"First period-English, second period-geometry, lunch break, third period-history, fourth period-physical education, fifth period-sciences."

It was Persephone's voice. He whirled his head around, but she was not there of course. He smiled, that help was welcomed.

School was as he remembered it as well. Peter waved to him as he approached and talked to him as they walked all the way to their first class. That's right—Peter was his best friend.

"Masen, watch where you're walking!" a girls voice rang out. He looked down and saw that he had walked straight into a girl.

She wore a black blouse and a navy blue skirt that reached halfway down her calves because that was the length for skirts back then. Her blonde hair was bobbed at chin-length and held back from her eyes with a bobby pin. Her eyes were a refreshing blue.

Daisy Dussle.

Even at seventeen years old she hadn't grown out of her skinniness, but since she was now working a job, she could afford to better keep herself. Most girls rejected her from their groups of friends since she was the poorest girl in school.

Daisy was also the first to bob her hair, the first to wear skirts so shockingly short, the first to wear her legs bare, and a lot of other things.

Filled to the brim with joy of seeing his friend, Edward instantly hugged her. When he left go, she was looking at him like he'd gone crazy.

"Edward… why are you hugging me?"

"Uhhh, no reason."

When he'd checked on Daisy as a vampire, he'd learned she'd died in 1972. That was fairly long for a human. But now, seeing her alive and young made him the best he'd felt in a long time.

School passed—it was tedious, as always. At lunch Daisy, Peter, and Edward bought sodas at the store a block from the school and he truly was enjoying himself. For the first time in ninety years—he was home.

.x.X.x.

Isabella was nervous. Mr. Kinner had called her from where she was scouring the dishes and said he needed to "speak with her."

This could only be bad.

Had she done something? Or perhaps it was something she _didn't _do! Either way she felt her knees shaking as she followed him.

"Would you like something to drink, dear?" he offered her, "Have a seat!"

She timidly sat in one of the chairs in the sitting room. She'd dusted and swept this room countless times—but never sat in it.

"No thank you, sir," she said.

"Oh, have something," Mr. Kinner insisted, "Have you ever had wine, Isabella?"

"No, sir, I haven't," she accepted the glass of deep red liquid he poured her.

Bringing the rim of the glass to her lips, she took a small sip. Sour. Not bad, just sour. The alcohol stung her throat going down, but left a warm feeling in her chest. She drank some more.

"It would seem," he began, "That this boarding house is failing."

Isabella looked up, startled.

"Failing badly, Isabella. Are you hearing what I'm saying?" Mr. Kinner continued.

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Which is why I'm afraid I have to close it down," he said, hastily, "Meaning you and your sisters are going to have to find a new place to live. And that you will have to find a new situation."

His words rang in her ears. She tightened her grip on the wine glass. Oh, how great! It wasn't desirable, but finding a new job couldn't be _so _hard, would it?

"I'm so sorry, Isabella," he really did sound sincerely sorry, "I'll help you as much as I can. I'll write you the best references you've ever seen!"

And he turned around to face his desk and ruffled some papers and found a pen and sat down to do just that.

'Well,' Isabella's mind began turning, 'I just need a plan. Let's see—I can get a room in a hotel with my savings, and find newspapers. Yes! I'll just advertisements in newspapers and see if I can't find a job there.'

With another sip, she finished off her wine and accepted Mr. Kinner's references. With the papers in hand, she climbed the stairs to their attic room, with nothing to do but sit and wait for when Stella and Silvana came back from school and tell them what had happened.

'Things won't be bad,' Isabella told herself, 'Not any worse than they are now—just different. That's all.'

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Thanks for reading! Sorry if this one's short.**


	5. The House on Lenox Street

**Title-**** A Blooming Edwardian Summer**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Pairing-**** Eventual EdwardxBella**

**Note-**** NOT AU!**

**Disclaimer- I don't own Twilight. If I did, I wouldn't have sent ****Breaking Dawn ****to the publisher with so many gaping plot holes.**

**Serena- Hi. Sorry this took a while. I have no excuses, so I won't bother you with made-up ones.**

_The House on Lenox Street…_

Isabella cowered under the blankets of the cheap hotel room that Silvana and Stella and herself had rented out for the time being. They kept a piece of wood that Stella had found in the street and they used it to beat the rats out when they climbed in the room through the decaying piping when they smelled the girls' dinner cooking on the half-broken oil stove.

She finally had to come up for fresh air, since she was running out of just that under the patched, torn blanket. She happened to notice that neither of her sister's hair had been combed in days. Well, she'd sold her only comb—the one from Italy that had belonged to their mother. Their faces were unclean and their bodies pale and thin. This shamed Isabella back under the blanket. She was a horrible older sister. There was no other way around that fact.

"EEEEEIII!" one of the girls screamed, and Isabella instantly shot up to see that it was Silvana. A large, black rat was hanging by one claw out of a hole in one of the pipes. Its red eyes were wide and its mouth was open, snarling with large, sharp teeth. Isabella jumped at the horrid sight of it, and even Stella, who was usually the bravest of the three stared at it with wide eyes.

"_Sorella!_" Isabella tossed the wood piece to her, and her sister's hands managed to catch it.

It was about to fall down to the floor, and scamper who knows where, and Silvana made no move to hit it with the stick. Stella shouted, "_Che cosa state aspettando?_ What are you waiting for?"

"Kill it!" Isabella swallowed deeply, unable to look at it.

"I—I can't," Silvana began to cry, "Not when he's looking right at me!"

"Then I will," Stella said bravely, "Give me the stick."

Silvana surrendered the Giordano girls' only weapon to her sister, who quickly connected the end of it to the rat's body and they could hear the _snap _of its neck breaking as it hit the floor, dead. Silvana began to cry at the dead thing, and Isabella quickly moved to kick the thing with her feet out the door and into the hallway so she didn't have to look at it anymore.

"If we are going to stay here we ought to get a cat," Stella said from where she stood, still wielding the stick.

"What would we feed a cat?" Isabella asked sourly.

"She would have as many rats as she wanted," Stella pointed out.

"_Forse_," Isabella sighed, "Perhaps."

She climbed out of the bed, and walked over to the only other piece of furniture in the room—the small table in the middle and picked up the newspapers fished from the garbage cans on the street. Isabella got down on her hands and knees and reached for the small knit purse from Italy they kept hidden under the bed. In that purse there was every penny the Giordano girls could call their own. Which at the moment was only five dollars and twelve cents. Which meant Isabella would have to find a job soon. She had Mr. Kinner's references (even if she could not read a word of them) but had only not found anyone who had needed an Italian girl who was pretty much useless unless it was manual labor, like cleaning things because she could barely could speak English.

Isabella flipped the newspaper in her hands, "Is this one new?" she asked Silvana, who nodded.

"Read it for me, won't you? Look in the employment ads."

Silvana nodded a second time and took the paper from her and flipped a few pages—Isabella noted the way her eyes traveled back and forth and her lips silently formed the words on the paper. Isabella wished for what seemed like the millionth time that she could read.

"They all seem to require somewhat of an education. See? Girl who can write quickly. Girl who can type on a typewriter," Silvana listed them off, "Oh? What's this one?"

"Read it!" Isabella instructed, looking over her sister's shoulder at the small characters, even though they meant nothing to her.

"Maid," she said, "A girl who would be available in the afternoons to do housework. The pay is 5.50 a week—quite good, considering. You must have references when you go to apply. They gave an address—1267 Lenox Street. Is that in Chicago?"

"Must be," Isabella fell back on to the bed, a slight smile on her lips, "1267 Lenox Street in Chicago. I'll go there tomorrow!"

.x.X.x.

As for what to wear did not specifically matter. She only had one dress of a light brown color, with a skirt that was at ankle-length. Her boots were rough—they had many holes in them and the soles had come apart many times, but she simply sewed them back together as best she could. It was lucky that her feet had not grown since she'd even left Italy. She borrowed a Silvana's dress (who sat in the hotel room with the blanket around her) to go downstairs and stand in the line to boil her own filthy dress in the pump water. If she would show up dressed in rags from Italy, then she had might as well be in _clean _rags. When that was done, Stella and Silvana did their best to wipe the dirt from her face, although they did admit she still looked a little gray from the soot—but not as bad as it had been before. They tried to comb her hair with their fingers and managed to tie it back into a quite well-looking braid in back. Isabella tied a white scarf over her head and realized it was the best it was ever going to get.

Lenox Street, Stella had found out, was on the North side of the city. She repeated the directions over and over and until Isabella could repeat them back to her. She did not hurry along the street—but did enjoy the sunny (if chilly) day. She stopped at a fancy store and peered in the windows at the hats and gloves. Such fine things…

Isabella could find her way around well for the most part considering she had lived in Chicago for nearly a year now. Although her business had mostly kept her on the Lower West Side, and did not venture out usually. Of course, to find 1267 Lenox, she'd have to take the _L_ line all the way to Forest Glen. Isabella had never even heard of Forest Glen before—nor any other North Side neighborhoods.

And the _L_ was complicated—especially if you didn't speak English. But Silvana said that that was why it was color-coded. Isabella took the orange line to all the way past "Roosevelt" and into "Downtown Chicago." She got off there and walked (following Silvana's exact directions) and got back on at the "State Street Station," where she rode the red line all the to "Howard Street," and then changed to the purple line on until "Central Avenue," where she finally got off. This was the farthest she'd ever gone into North Side Chicago.

She had to walk the rest of her way to Forest Glen, and did notice how nice-looking all of the houses became, the farther she walked. They were beautiful, large, two-story houses of nice brick and good-sized lawns. She looked sorely out of place the way she was dressed, but ignored it when people looked twice at her. Isabella could read numbers—that was the first thing she'd learned at the factory—the Irish girl next to her taught her what the numbers on her coins should be—just so she knew they weren't ripping her off. Isabella had always been able to read money, why would street addresses be much different? She clutched her references closer to her and walked up what she dearly hoped was Lenox Street, and knocked on the door of 1267.

A woman with a pretty, pale complexion and beautiful blue eyes, and silky brown hair in a chignon answered the door. She was older—forty-five, perhaps, but still small and beautiful. She wore a white skirt and ice-blue blouse out of such fine material that Isabella would have given anything to touch it. Her shoes were nice brown leather and her hands were pale and clean. She looked at Isabella with a very special look.

Isabella was used to the ways people looked at her. In Italy it had been with pity—looks that said, "the poor, destitute Giordano girl… her family is starving." Back at Ellis Island, people had looked at her with utter curiosity, just as she had looked at others. Their looks said, "Who is this girl? Where is she from? What kind of life did she have there?" Once in New York, and in Chicago the looks were all indifferent. They said, "Oh, just another immigrant girl."

But this woman seemed to be a mixture of the first two. She obviously felt some sort of pity for her—a thin, malnourished girl. And yet she seemed to be interested at the same time. Had she seen many others like her? Perhaps not… Isabella smiled and introduced herself, trying her best to put the Italian accent she _knew _she had away for a minute.

"Are you here for the job, Miss Giordano?" the woman asked, looking at her through her blue eyes.

_Miss Giordano?_ Since when was Isabella a _Miss Giordano?_ She'd never been called so in her life! She cracked a wider smile at that and replied, "Yes."

"Come in," the woman smiled back and beckoned she step inside. Isabella followed her into what seemed to be the parlor. It was quite beautiful inside! The walls were all painted and the wooden floors were waxed until they were shiny. The furniture was like what she saw in fancy furniture stores, and everything seemed to be rather dusty, but still beautiful. The woman pointed to a seat for her, which Isabella had to study deeply before taking the seat. It was from a dark wood, with a mint-green cushion on the seat and back.

"Where do you live, Miss Giordano?" the woman began conversation, sitting across from her, "Tea?"

"Yes, please, ma'am. And I'm living on 21st Street and Oakley," That's only what she'd heard Stella and Silvana say, anyway, "That's in the Lower West Side."

"I see," the woman mused pouring tea into a delicate, beautiful cup, "I'm Mrs. Masen. It's a large house here considering it's only my husband, son, and I."

"It is a very pretty house," Isabella said, accepting her tea, "Could you like to see my references?"

"_Would_ I," Mrs. Masen corrected, and Isabella instantly blushed at her mistake. She wanted to slap herself on the forehead. How could she have mixed up a word _now _when she needed to sound somewhat smart?

"Of course, I'm sorry," she said quickly, looking down at her curled fingers in her lap.

"Don't apologize," Mrs. Masen said gently, putting her hand on her knee. Her hands were delicate and small, "You are doing an excellent job in your English. How long have you been in this country?"

"Two years," Isabella answered, "I can understand more than I can talk."

"That's usually how it is," the woman said kindly, and Isabella decided she liked her, "And may I see your references?"

She handed them over and Mrs. Masen looked over the page and didn't even seem to read them all, "Your previous employer seemed to think quite well of you, Miss Giordano. You were a boarding house maid?"

"He was a very generous man. He let my sisters live with me there without any charge," Isabella explained.

"You have sisters?" Mrs. Masen handed her back the reference paper and seemed interested in the conversation she had just sparked up.

"Two," she confirmed, "They are both twelve."

"So they are twins?"

"Yes—I think. I don't know the English word. For two children born together?" Isabella asked, blushing again at her lack of English words.

"I think you do mean twins," Mrs. Masen said.

"We say _gemelli _in Italy," Isabella said, but then winced, wondering whether that might hurt her cause. She really needed this job.

But Mrs. Masen actually seemed interested in that, and then continued her questions, "You seem young, how old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Do you live with your parents as well?"

Isabella got her voice caught in her throat at the thought, but then shook her head, "Mine are both dead, Mrs. Masen."

Mrs. Masen _did _seem sorry for asking, and quickly continued, "I suppose since you have been a maid before, you would be familiar with the work?"

"Oh yes!" Isabella gushed, "I can do all of it—clean, sew, knit—you name it!"

"Good," Mrs. Masen smiled, "You see, you'll be in the charge of Mrs. Mallon, our cook. She requested a helper and I certainly did not want to risk her possibly leaving us. I do believe she'll be quite pleased with you."

Isabella smiled again.

"And you would have certain hours too, of course. I would give you Tuesdays off, is that satisfactory?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps you could come every day besides around noon and stay until five? I would pay you 5.50 a week."

"That is perfect!"

"In that case, consider yourself hired, Miss Giordano. Be here tomorrow. Twelve o'clock."

.xX.x.

Elizabeth Masen sat on the window seat and stared out the large window looking out into their backyard. Of course, it was so dark out that she saw nothing but a slightly marred mirror image of herself. She was in her silk nightgown and her hair was down in a plaits. She crossed her arms tightly to herself and pondered her day.

Her husband flicked through papers at the desk in the corner of the room. He was a lawyer—and usually busy late.

"I hired the first girl that came," she said at last.

"What?" Hiram Masen looked up from his papers and at his wife, recognizing that she had just spoken.

"The position we were advertising in the newspaper," Elizabeth explained, "I hired the first girl that came."

"Is that wise?" he asked, "How do you know she was best for it?"

"I don't know that, I suppose," she said thoughtfully, looking around the room slowly, "But I couldn't _not _hire her."

Hiram pushed his chair back and walked over and joined her on the window seat, putting his arm around her, "Why was that?"

Elizabeth began to have tears in her eyes, "I asked her where she lived. She said 21st Street and Oakley in the Lower West Side. There are no _decent _buildings over there, Hiram—we both know it. She also said she had sisters. Two of them. She's raising them all by herself. How could I _not _hire her?"

"You did the right thing, my dear," Hiram sighed, rubbing her back, "Don't feel upset. Perhaps you ought to go to sleep."

"Perhaps you ought to," she pointed out, "That is too much work to finish tonight anyhow."

He looked over at his stack of papers and nodded, "I'll just finish a little more for tonight. Go to bed."

Elizabeth shook her head, "No, I'll wait."

"If you're sure…"

As she looked back at her marred reflection, she realized she had not been completely truthful. It was not only Isabella Giordano's less-than-favorable situation that had made her hire her on the spot. It seemed like the girl had been destined to see that ad, just as she was destined to be hired. It was an eerie feeling, but also one that Elizabeth could not quite figure out how to say no to.

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Fairly long chapter, hope you all forgive me for taking so long to update. Please review.**


	6. Charming Edward

**Title-**** A Blooming Edwardian Summer**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Pairing-**** Eventual EdwardxBella**

**Note-**** NOT AU!**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing. I am just a slave to writing.**

**Serena- Holy cow! I got a lot of reviews! THANKS SO MUCH to ****COMMA OF THOUGHT, HistoryintheMaking, Butterscotch Dreams, signorinakimberly, Is it hard understanding, DejeVu856, forever fallen angel,**** and ****curlyk03**** for their reviews!! And they all said such nice things… You all rock and I love you! 'Cause I got so many, I'm updating quicker. Please R&R!**

_Charming Edward…_

"We would learn the private virtues; how to glide through shades and plains, along the smoothest stream of rural life; or, snatch'd away by hope, through the dim spaces of futurity, with earnest eye anticipate those scenes of happiness and wonder, where the mind in endless growth and infinite ascent rises from state to state, and world to world," Silvana read aloud from a book she must have gotten through school.

Isabella brooded—very shamefully. It was getting to the point where she could no longer even understand what Stella and Silvana were reading. They were getting smarter and smarter, while she just stayed stupid. But, wasn't this the exact reason that she even worked so hard in the first place and let them live so poorly in a horrible tenant building—so she could afford to send them to school? _I ought to be happy for my _sorelle,_ they won't be stupid like me_, she told herself and managed a smile towards Silvana.

Stella turned away from her twin sister and looked at her elder one, "What's that in the package?" Her eyes were fixed on a small form wrapped in brown paper and tied in string, sitting senselessly on Isabella's lap.

Isabella had a good idea—but of course was not 100 percent sure of anything. She wordlessly untied the string and tore the paper back. It was a black dress that was made out of some heavy sort of cotton. Her sisters frowned at it.

"Where'd you get it?"

"My employers sent it to me," she answered lightly, "It must be my uniform."

It was not a lovely dress by any means. But it was made through a machine and was likely the sturdiest thing she'd ever worn. All of her clothes before had been homespun back on the farm. The stitches were impossibly small to be from human hands and the material was so tightly woven it had to have been made in a factory. She thought of all of the factory girls who had made it, and shook her head. _I've been there before,_ she thought.

"Bella-Bella!" Silvana cried out, "I can see a rat trying climb in through the hole you tried to patch up!"

In the corner of the room where there had previously been a hole in the wall, Isabella had taken some rags she'd found stuck in the gutter, washed them as best she could and balled them up to cover the hole. It handed worked as well as she'd hoped.

She threw the package with the dress aside and picked up the stick that the girls always kept within reach and jabbed it through the hole, killing the rat before it even had a chance to run. Silvana was looking the other way, and Stella took the stick from Isabella and gave the rat another jab, just to make sure it was dead.

"We can't leave it in that hole—the body will begin to rot and smell awful," Isabella told her, and Stella used the stick to drag it out, ignoring Silvana's shrieks in horror at the dead, mangled thing, and kicked it into the hallway, just like they did every other rat.

As Isabella wrapped her arms around Silvana's trembling body, she looked over at Stella, "Buy a cat tomorrow."

.x.X.x.

Being the housemaid on 1267 Lenox Street was hard work—but nothing Isabella wasn't used to. No one hit her, like the men did in the thread factory, and the place was much cleaner than the boarding house. Mrs. Masen asked her to vacuum the carpet, and she had to admit that she didn't know what a vacuum was.

When Mrs. Masen plugged the cord into a hole in the wall, she was in total shock—what was it supposed to do? When the vacuum was flicked on, and the loud, groaning noise vibrated against the walls, Isabella screamed and jumped back. Was that thing alive?

"_Che cosa é quell disturbo! Perché fa quello!_" she blurted in surprise.

Electricity, she decided, was something she would never understand. She had seen it before—but never in someone's house! Besides a vacuum, the Masen's had a record player, a telephone, and an automobile parked outside.

She worked in the kitchen mainly. Mrs. Mallon, the cook was a thin, woman of about thirty with orange hair pulled back into a bun and had friendly blue eyes. She still spoke with an accent that Isabella had heard the Irish girls in the New York thread factory speak with. She asked if she was Irish.

"Cork County," she said, nodding, "Been 'ere since I was just thirteen years old—came to New York in 1903."

"Did you work in a factory then?" Isabella asked, trying not to inhale the soap she was using to scrub the flour she'd accidentally spilled on the floor.

The woman laughed, "Who didn't? In the mills by the river—where if ye stood too close, the machine would pull your skin right off. Many a girl died that way…"

As she listened to Mrs. Mallon's story, she realized that her own was not much different.

"I left New York in 1911, after Triangle burned down," she began beating the eggs in her bowl as she sighed, imagining things Isabella could not see.

Isabella stopped scrubbing the kitchen floor and leaned back against the wall, looking up at the woman as she spoke, "Triangle?" she pushed her on.

"Triangle Shirtwaist Factory," she explained, "I was a Shirtwaist girl, I worked on the second floor, weavin' all of the thread together when it began. We didn't know—it was always 'ot so 'igh up with the machines runnin'. But soon it grew so dark with smoke that we couldn't see. And then we tried to get out, but the doors were locked."

"They kept you locked in there?" Isabella asked in growing horror.

"Every day," Mrs. Mallon confirmed, "The elevators weren't workin' then, either."

"How did you get out?" Isabella demanded to know.

"We jumped out the windows. We were the lucky ones, I tell you. Only on the second floor. All of the girls on the upper floors jumped out all the same—they did not make it, though."

"You mean they jumped to their deaths?" she echoed.

Mrs. Mallon nodded, swallowing deeply. Isabella wondered if she was seeing those factory girls jump out of the high windows and then splatter on the sidewalk below. Just like in 1911, "The fire department had nets," she said slowly, "Most of us thought they'd 'old. They did if you jumped from the second or third floors, but…" she hardly needed to finish that sentence. Isabella shuddered.

"Ye said ye were a thread girl? 'Ave they gotten a Workers Union in New York yet?" Mrs. Mallon dumped the eggs in the bowl of flour.

"Workers Union?" Isabella tried to say it, "No. I don't know what that is."

"Ah, just a group of factory workers like we were—all over the city, and if the factories wouldn't bend to our demands, then we could refuse to work. If one person did that, it wouldn't 'urt the factory. If every worker in New York did—ye would 'ave impact. Do ye get it?"

Isabella nodded, "We didn't have that. If you spoke too much, you'd simply be fired." She could remember many girls who had tried to rally others and get others angry. They'd all disappear the next day. Of course, she just kept her head down and did what she was supposed to.

"'Ere was a strike for that at Triangle," Mrs. Mallon remembered, "All of the girls walked out. I was stupid—I just wanted to keep me job."

"We all did," Isabella reminded her.

"I suppose," she began to knead the dough out of the bowl and onto the table top, "But I still think that if I were to relive the years where I was a Shirtwaist girl, I would 'ave stood for something bigger—I would 'ave left with the others. Just to feel like I was making a statement—ye know?"

Isabella picked her scrub brush back up and began scrubbing again, although with much less strength than she had been doing so before. Her mind was not into it. "Yes, I know," she replied quietly. Maybe she should have stood up with the other girls. _My,_ she thought, _that was back in 1916. It doesn't seem like that long ago…_ A sudden sound interrupted her thoughts, and Isabella looked up to see a boy about her own age, with red hair just like Mrs. Mallon's and the same blue eyes. They also had the same kind of mouth, so she could tell he was her son right away.

"Hey!" he shouted loudly, tromping right all over the floor she'd just cleaned, "Watcha makin', Ma?" His accent was horribly American and rough, causing her to cringe when he spoke.

"Get out!" his mother snapped at him, "Ye are never anythin' but trouble when ye come over 'ere!"

"Say," he looked down at Isabella, "When did you get this nice Italian girl without telling me?"

"_Li spero bene caduta in, testa della merda,_" Isabella spat at him, glaring her fiercest glare.

He just made kissing noises at her, but Mrs. Mallon then connected the handle of her broom to his head, "Get out—I won't say it again! If ye ever talk to this girl 'ere again, 'ere will be 'ell to pay, ye slack-jawed idiot!"

"Calm down, you crazed Irish woman!" he countered.

Isabella was rather shocked that he spoke to his mother like that, but Mrs. Mallon didn't seem surprised by it. She just humphed and yelled back, "Spoiled American brat!"

She managed to shove him out the back door and slam the door behind him, huffing profanities under her breath. "That's Patrick—me son, unfortunately. Ignore 'im, if 'e ever comes back," she said to Isabella, kindly.

"Isabella!" she heard a voice call her from somewhere in the house. Mrs. Mallon looked up, "'At's Missus Masen, ye'd better 'urry, child."

Isabella threw down the brush, even though the floor was not yet half-scrubbed, and anything that she had done was muddied up again by Patrick Mallon. She let her skirt back down around her ankles and ran to where her Mistress's voice was coming.

"I hate to ask this of you," Mrs. Masen said, holding a basket of laundry, "But could you be a dear and run upstairs to see if there is any laundry still up there?"

"Yes, ma'am," Isabella gave a slight inclination of her head and hurried out of the room, lifting her skirt to climb the stairs. She had not been in the upstairs of their house very often—only to do the dusting. She opened the first door to find a simple room with a model aeroplane hanging from the ceiling. It must have been a boy's room, and she did remember Mrs. Masen mentioning a son.

The floor was littered with clothes and she sighed, and got down on her hands and knees to collect it all. The first article of clothing her hands touched where a rough blue material, that felt odd in her hands. Stiff and thick. They had the strangest metal buttons and… a zipper? What an odd piece of clothing! She held them up and saw that they were supposed to be pants. No suspenders? Were they made out of _denim?_ She was also surprised at their size. She had expected their son to be about twelve or thirteen, because his mother looked so young. Judging from the size of his clothes, he would be practically an adult. She shrugged.

The next thing she collected was softer and worn. It was gray. But an odd sort of gray. Around the inside of the collar, there was a slip of paper that had writing on it, although she could not read just what it said. But why would there be writing on clothing? She shrugged that off too, and picked up the rest to carry back downstairs.

Mrs. Masen frowned at the clothing in her arms, and pulled the denim blue pants up, "What on earth are these?"

"I don't know, ma'am," Isabella answered, "Look at this one," she held up the oddly gray shirt, "It has writing on it. Isn't that strange?"

"Let me see… 'Old Navy,'" she read, "You found these in Edward's room?" Mrs. Masen asked, examining the shirt as well.

"The room with the aeroplane," Isabella confirmed.

"I do wonder where he got these," the woman handed them back to her, "Just place them in the basket over there, and come back up with me."

Isabella did as she was told and then followed her Mistress up the stairs again and into the same room she had been in before. Mrs. Masen looked around on the surfaces, while she just laid on her stomach to peek under the bed. Her fingers closed around a knit white sock.

"This also had words on it," she noted holding the sock up so she could see it.

"It says 'Nike.' That is all very curious," Mrs. Masen took the sock from her and tapped on her chin.

"A new fashion?" Isabella offered.

She did not seem very convinced, but they both took the sock downstairs to add to the laundry pile. Mrs. Masen smiled, "Edward is a good son—you'll have to meet him."

"Yes, ma'am," she answered, taking the laundry basket back to the kitchen to begin washing.

The clock read three-thirty, and she heard another bang as the back door from the kitchen was thrown open. She looked up, half-expecting it to be Patrick Mallon again, but saw that it was a different boy. He was taller, with bronze-colored hair and deep green eyes. He had an even chin and nose, and was even rather good-looking. She just set the basket down, not sure what she was supposed to do.

Well, he sure knew what he was supposed to do. He grinned a large smile—strangely large, actually. "Bella," he breathed and walked right up to her and bent down to kiss her on the lips.

As soon as she felt his lips on her own, she felt herself got hot—like she was a pot of water boiling over. She was that angry. She fought her hands up to his chest, and shoved him back with all of her might. He was sent staggering, looking at her like _she _was the one who had lost her mind.

"_Chi voi pensano siete!_" she seethed, her voice shooting through two whole octaves, "You are worse than Patrick Mallon!" With that said, she turned on her heel, stepped over the laundry basket and ran back to the front of the house.

Mrs. Masen looked up at her as she stormed in and asked her what was the matter.

"I must go home now, ma'am. You may dock my pay, I'll come back and work extra hours tomorrow morning also. But I must go home now," Isabella said calmly, considering how outraged she felt.

"I suppose that's fine," her Mistress said, "But whatever is the matter, Isabella?"

By this point, the boy had come into the same room as them both, crying, "Bella!"

"Why don't you ask _him?_" Isabella said sourly, pointing at him. She had, by now, realized that this must be their _charming _son, Edward.

"Edward?" Mrs. Masen actually seemed stern as she addressed her son, and Isabella couldn't stand the scene anymore and ran out the front door, and didn't stop running until she got to the station on Central Avenue.

.x.X.x.

"And that's not the worst part!" Isabella ranted, pacing back and forth across their room, "Their son, Edward, came barreling in the back door, called me _Bella _and then kissed me on the lips!"

"How horrid!" Silvana sympathized, patting her back.

"That _parté di merda,_" Stella swore, "Oh, Bella-Bella, doesn't he know that only we can call you that?"

"Apparently not!" Isabella raged, "I hate American boys!"

"Ah, but all of the rich boys here happen be American," Stella reminded her.

"There you go about rich men again!" Silvana sighed, picking her book back up.

"I don't care—I wouldn't be able to stand being with him even if he was rich!" Isabella snapped and punched the wall as hard as she could and all three girls could hear the rats inside the walls scampering away from the noise.

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Whoo, even longer chapter here. Heh, they might not all be this long… THANKS, please review!**

**Also, the idea of Edward kissing Isabella was ****Butterscotch Dreams****, so all the credit to her!**


	7. Ill

**Title-**** A Blooming Edwardian Summer**

**Author****- 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Pairing-**** Eventual BellaxEdward**

**Note-**** Not AU!**

**Disclaimer- Don't own.**

**Serena- Thanks so much for the reviews! I am sorry this update took a while, because I had to wait until I finished my ****Jane Eyre**** chapter to then delete it and use this word document. That's how I write four stories at the same time without making too many different ones—eats up WAY too much space on the memory otherwise.**

**Wow, enough of that, please read, thanks if you reviewed!**

_Ill…_

Bella.

The scene from that horrible afternoon played and replayed in Edward's mind from the point to where it was embarrassing, and then to the point where it was maddening. He could only think one word in the process: Why? Why had this happened to him? Most people live normal lives. Even the unlucky few who would have to deal with being a vampire weren't tortured this much. He clutched his forehead and turned over on his bed.

When he'd first come in the doorway to see his only reason for living, words could not express his joy. Not if he picked up a pen and wrote pretty things for the rest of his life. He thought he would be complete then. Persephone was right. He _would _see Bella again, She had been sent to 1918 as well, and she had found him.

Impulse guided him to approach her and kiss her like he'd wanted to the whole time he'd spent back in his original time. And he was so sure that she would reply with the same eagerness he felt so deep in his own soul, until she shoved him back with more force than he would have assumed she had. Well, never mind—he was human now. And then she spat swear words at him in Italian and called him worse than Patrick Mallon, before storming out of the room.

Edward could honestly say that he had not been expecting that. Bella was not Bella. Somehow. She was someone different. She had been born into this time and lived her own life in 1918. She knew nothing about the future and nothing about Edward. Well, except for that he kissed her… Which is why the thought of the scene is embarrassing and maddening for him. What she must think of him now… And perhaps rightly so.

Edward's mother was quite shocked with his behavior. He had never acted that way before. He was usually quite a gentleman to girls. She than assumed that because she was the maid and an immigrant that he thought her less and gave him a lecture on that head. Of which he simply listened to while staring at his feet, wondering, just wondering what would happen next.

Bella would likely never forgive him. Not with a first impression like the one he had just made. And then he began to think… how did he even know her name was still Bella? She was likely a completely different person. A different environment and different experiences than that of the Bella he knew. There was no way they could have much more in common than their appearance.

How stupid he had been to actually believe that a girl born in 1901 same as him would be the equivalent to a girl born in the 1990s! So in a sense, he would never see _his _Bella again, unless Persephone randomly decided to change her mind—which he could not see happening. So… what did he do about that? Did he just give up on ever being in love again? Or did he try to see just who this Bella was? There was no doubt they looked identical to each other. Of course, this girl was dirtier and shabbier and had a much harder look in her eye.

Edward_ had_ noticed something more about this Bella. When you looked long enough into those dark, hard eyes, you saw ambition, grit, and strength in them. She had been beaten into such a disposition by life. He was not quite looking into the eyes of Isabella Marie Swann anymore, but a walked-on, hardened girl he did not even know. That probably should have been his first clue.

She was Italian. Edward tried to recall if Bella had come from Italian descent, but never remembered her mentioning anything of the sort. What sort of life had she had? If it had been the one of a typical immigrant girl, then the look she had would have been well explained. But who was she? Who would Bella have been if she had lived in 1918? How did she live? Where did she live? Edward was suddenly so overcome with curiosity with this new Bella, that he was determined to see her again.

And perhaps see if he could be charismatic enough to make her forgive him for his previous actions. Perhaps she would. And perhaps she would talk to him next time. And tell him about herself. And maybe, just maybe, be the girl he loved, even if she would be different. Would he have loved Bella any less if she had been forced through such things and came out with the same personality as this Bella? No. There was no future Bella now. She would never exist. This was Bella now. And Edward quite simply had to win her back. At literally any costs.

.x.X.x.

At first, Edward realized that both Bella and his mother had arranged a new working schedule that happened to have her coming a half an hour after he'd left for school, and her leaving a half an hour before he came home again. How very clever of them both… Which only meant that Edward would have to skip school for a chance to talk to her. It was not a big deal, then. Edward had graduated high school too many times to count, and he was quite glad to realize that after this school year was over, he'd never be a high school student again. _Thank God._

And he passed every test with flying colors. He didn't need to show up. So he complained of being sick. Mrs. Masen knew school was pretty much done for him anyway, and likely just could not think of a reason to get him out of the house for Bella. As she left the room, Edward knew that she would do everything in her power to keep Bella from coming upstairs to his room.

He could hear her talking from downstairs, "Oh, no need to dust Edward's room today, Isabella."

_Her name is Bella_, he mused.

"Why is that, ma'am?" he heard a girl with a heavy Italian accent wonder.

"Uhhh," his mother trailed off, "he rearranged his room last night—that ought to have picked up most of the dust. Save it for tomorrow, dear."

"If you insist," Bella said, obviously not quite understanding what her mistress was saying, but not having the place to contradict her. Edward knew that's not what most housemaids were like. If you employer told you not to do something—you simply did not do it.

He heard her climb the stairs and even walk past his bedroom door. Edward silently rose from his desk chair and opened the door once he was sure she would be far away enough not to be within earshot of the creaking hinges. He treaded lightly to his parents' bedroom and saw that Bella was indeed running a dust rag over his father's writing desk. Her back was to him and all he saw was a smallish girl in a cheaply-cut black dress with a long, dark-brown braid stretching down her back with a white scarf tied over her head.

"Excuse me, miss," he began, stepping into the room. She jumped, almost dropped her rag and then turned to face him, her face turning white as soon as she saw who it was confronting her.

"_Voi ancora?_" she demanded, "Want to you want with me?"

"An apology," he said, trying to sound smooth, "… if you would accept mine."

"Oh, so _now _you know what you've done wrong!" she spat, and turned back to the desk she was dusting, "You think I have no reason to refuse you, just because I am a maid?"

Edward cringed at her harsh words, "No—I won't try to explain my actions. They were wrong. Please accept my apology, miss."

"So now it is _miss _with you?" she kept up her anger, "Whatever happened to stupid Bella, hmm? And I suppose your mother put you up to this—the kind woman that she is. I cannot believe she produced a son like you!"

"My mother thinks I'm lying sick in my room," he informed her.

"You lied just so you could tell me this?" she stared at him like he was stupid, "What is wrong with you? Why do not you leave me alone?"

How was he supposed to explain that he had been immortal, lived in the future, fell in love with a different version of her, and now desperately needed her back? This was getting even a little too complex for him to comprehend. Edward shook his head.

"I just don't like to think about how we got off on the wrong foot. Please forgive, miss," his voice sounded more desperate than he had intended and realized it was because he truly was desperate. Acknowledging this, he dropped down to his knees, "You don't understand—I would do anything in the world for you."

She only stared at him with much more confusion. Well, how could she not? How could a boy just randomly be desperately in love with her? He realized it would all make little sense to her.

"Fine," she did eventually give in, likely just so he would stop talking, "Fine, I forgive you, now stand up and go back to bed before you embarrass yourself more with crazy ranting—you really are ill."

"No," Edward disagreed, standing back up, "I am feeling the best I have in days. Now, allow me to introduce myself. I am Edward Masen."

She stared at him with her dark eyes and finally said, "Isabella Giordano."

Edward found that rather interesting. So Bella had kept her first name, but was now called an entirely different last name. But he grinned, glad that she was speaking to him with other words than angry ones.

"And what may I call you?" he asked.

"I would prefer you didn't call me anything, and just went back to bed," she told him honestly.

"Please," he whispered, and then began to drop back to his knees, but she held him up and glared.

"Do not do that again!" she demanded.

"Answer my question, please?" Edward breathed, wondering just what was coming over him. He had intended to actually seem like a normal person to her, so that she would stop trying to avoid him, but as soon as he was actually standing before her, he turned into some lovesick fool and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

"Isabella," she said, "Call me Isabella, because that is my name."

"Not Bella?" he asked, rather confused on that point. Wouldn't both Bellas want the same nickname?

"No!" she snapped, "Only a girl's sisters may call her by a… what is the English word? Pet name. And definitely not boys she has just met!"

"Very well, Isabella," Edward bowed his head, "I shall do whatever you wish me to."

She gave him the strange look again, and then said, "I wish you would leave me alone."

"Ah, anything but that, darling Isabella."

"You are ill, go back to bed," she said through clenched teeth.

"As you wish," Edward grinned and gallantly bowed to her, "But I will try—try to stay away from you if that is what you want, but just know that I may not be very successful."

And with that said he turned and walked back to his own bedroom and paced about wondering what he had just said to that poor girl. She thought he was ill. Well, that is really no wonder. But he did mean everything he said to her. He was dead serious. The attachment he felt towards her was the strongest thing he'd ever felt. He really would do anything she told him to.

"I really would," he mused aloud.

With that, he stayed in his room the rest of the day, Mrs. Mallon bringing him meals. He only left once he heard Isabella close the front door. As much as he would have wanted to get up and follow Isabella everywhere she went, he did not. He would have wanted to hold her and kiss her, but just watching her would have been enough. But he did not. He did not because darling Isabella wished it so.

.x.X.x.

Isabella ran up the street to the tenant building and stomped up the cracking stairs to the Giordano girls' room. The rats that roamed the hallways all ran to greet her, for none of them were scared of humans. She did her best avoid them by kicking at them and running ahead of them. She closed the door and shuddered, hoping no new ones would come down the pipes in the night. _Ah, well if any of them do, Rocco will be happy to eat them_, she thought as she stooped to stroke the ears of the orange tabby cat they now kept. Stella had instantly named him Rocco and he gladly did eat many of the rats that found their way into the room. He was still a young cat, and still rather small. Isabella was sure he would grow more before he was an adult.

"Bella-Bella, it is a good thing you are back!" Stella leapt from the bed to the floor in front of her, "We were just worrying about how you were with that horrible son!"

"Oh, him?" Isabella sighed, "I tell you—I have never met anyone stranger. I have more to tell now. He was ill, yes? And then he confronts me and asks I accept an apology?"

"Did you?" Stella wanted to know, from where she sat reading a newspaper.

"Well, he got down on his knees and started begging… so yes."

Both of her little sisters were floored. Their eyes went wide, as did their mouths in utter shock. Neither of them had heard of such a thing! Silvana was thrilled by it, and Stella scandalized.

"You mean that?" Silvana gushed, "That I would have liked to see! Then what happened?"

"He could not have been thinking straight…" Stella pointed out.

"That's what I said," Isabella humphed, sitting on the bed next to her, "His mother said he was ill."

"Awww," Silvana sighed, "I was hoping he would go madly in love with you and insist that if you would not have him, he would run away from home and become a beggar…"

"How realistic is that?" Stella demanded.

"It was just wishful thinking," Silvana retorted and lifted Rocco onto her lap and stroked his chest.

Stella shook her head and continued reading her newspaper.

"And then what happened, Bella-Bella?" Silvana asked.

"He said he would do whatever I wished he would," Isabella recalled his exact words, "So I said I wished he would leave me alone."

Silvana laughed and Stella shook her head again, this time with a more sad emotion.

"How cruel! But funny too, _sorella_, don't get me wrong…"

"He really was quite ill, wasn't he?"

"Oh, bother Edward Masen, I cannot believe we are even having a conversation about this!"

"But Bella-Bella, it is not every day that one of us has a boy randomly in love with us. Was he seriously all that desperate?"

"Yes," Isabella put her face in her hands, sparing no details.

Silvana continued to laugh, and Stella only shook her head sadly as the story unfolded. Isabella didn't even know what to think anymore. Nothing much more came to mind other than, _What an odd, odd boy Edward Masen is…_

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Over and out.**

**Please review, though.**


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